The Footsoldier
by Russellonfire
Summary: The Queen has begun a massive conquest of Remnant, and now Vale stands in the way. A humble footsoldier is embroiled in a fierce battle between the Fall armies, and those of the Arcs. If he runs, he will burn. If he fights, he will die. He has no choices but to push on and pray.


The foot soldier was terrified. Around him, the sounds of battle rang in his ears, the clashing of swords, the shouts... the screams of the wounded. He saw men riddled with arrows, a man desperately trying to reattach his own hand, whimpering and pleading as he showed the limb back into place again and again to no avail.

He was terrified, and covered in blood and sweat and now, even his own piss. Not that he cared about that, his mind was desperately trying to keep him alive. Dodging a hasty spear thrust and slashing at its owner, he pushed forward. If he ran, he wouldn't make it out alive. The punishment for deserting the armies of House Fall were death.

But not a pleasant one.

So it was either push forward or suffer. That was why they fought so hard. Not out of loyalty, but fear. Fear of being burned alive, slowly, over an open fire. Sensitive areas smothered in fat to keep them tender for just that much longer. He'd seen it once. He'd watched as the man wailed. And watched as the Queen laughed.

* * *

The Queen was the head of House Fall. The only woman for centuries to do so. Sadistic and cruel, but full of guile and cunning. She aimed to crush all who opposed her and create the largest kingdom Remnant had ever seen.

To that end, she'd started the wars. In just ten years she'd crushed the lesser Kingdoms of Vytal and Menagerie, though the latter was hardly an accomplishment; it consisted of little more than savages on a large island. Still, the resources it possessed were impressive. Enough oak to keep most of her army in strong shields, and the iron reserves they found kept the blacksmiths busy day and night. Now it was them holding the armoury back, not the iron.

Their recent defeat of Mistral from the inside had - when combined with the strong foothold they'd created in Vytal - given them a major advantage in attacking Vale. From there, Vacuo and Atlas would soon fall.

So they had invaded the continent.

Their entire armies had landed, coming South from Vytal and West from Mistral, leaving only garrisons and reserves. It was a significant force, over a hundred thousand men, though most were forcibly recruited, and had questionable skill. It was enough however, and considering the harsh punishments inflicted on them, they stayed in line, or died trying. They were little more than slaves at this point.

Once Vale was crushed, they would sail to Atlas, trusting that the vast desert would prevent interference from Vacuo. Atlas itself was aloof, the Emperor content to sit until threatened. Or so the reports said.

When they'd landed, they had focussed on the capital itself, the mighty stronghold of the royal House Arc, who ruled the lands. It was on the fields before the city itself they battled.

At dawn, walls of spears had greeted them, and the longbow archers had driven arrows into all but the thickest plate.

And still they advanced. Their numbers irrepressible, the Fall army marched interminably onwards. When the two armies clashed, it was slaughter. The Queen had kept half her army back in reserve to prevent any attempts to pincer them, and to protect herself. Even so, they'd pressed the Valean men back to the walls, and victory looked certain.

And then he'd appeared.

Standing a head taller than most of the men on the battlefield, and clad in golden armour, he shone. His sword gleamed in the morning light, and his shield was blinding. King Jaune Arc strode onto the field, and where he walked, men followed.

Where he walked, men fell.

His armies rallied around him. Any signs of fatigue seemed lost, any doubts crushed, and they followed him unwaveringly.

Any Fall soldiers who approached fell within seconds, his sword finding the weak points in plate armour like it was so much paper, and jerkins cut through with a single stroke. His guards cut down those he missed, though it seemed he was more than able to handle himself. They too were exceptional fighters, and seemed to mostly consist of women in a colourful variety of armour, wielding eccentric weapons. They were no less deadly for that however. One nearly removed a man's head with a single punch from a caestus, while another used a war scythe with frightening speed.

What had seemed like certain victory was quickly turning to defeat. The first half of the Fall army was being decimated. Still they did not run, because if they did, they would burn.

* * *

In the heat of battle, the footsoldier been swept on towards the front, and before he knew it, he was stood in a clear area. He watched as the best fighter he'd ever seen, General Black, clashed with the King himself.

Black wielded a great axe with such dexterity it seemed weightless. The foot soldier knew it was easily over 10 pounds, which over the course of battle, would have drained a normal man.

And yet the King held his own seemingly with ease. Every one of Black's cuts were sidestepped, despite the armour the King wore. Every thrust with the spiked axe tip was deflected and returned with a cut the General furiously backpedalled from.

And then it was over. Arc tilted his shield at just the right moment, and the point of his sword glided across Black's exposed throat. He stood, gasping, clutching as his lifeblood left him. He pitched forward and was still.

The foot soldier stood in awe, before realising that this would be his only chance to escape. Not by running, because that would never work. But by dying quickly, or by killing the King. Though he knew which was more likely.

So with a cry, he charged. The King turned.

At the last moment, he smashed the soldier's sword away with his shield with such force that the poor steel he'd been given snapped, the point spinning off into the distance and burying itself in the blood soaked mud.

The soldier whimpered, while panting, short sharp breaths all he could manage as his heart beat a rapid staccato on his ribs. He was so scared it physically hurt, and he could only stare up at the King.

With contemptible ease, the King used his sword to flick the broken half blade out of the soldier's hands.

As the King swept his sword point up to the soldier's throat, he knew he would die. He closed his eyes. And then the King spoke.

"Yield."

The soldier opened his eyes in shock. Why would the King try to spare his life? In the middle of a battle? What madness was this, to let himself be so distracted in the midst of combat.

"W-" the soldier tried to say, but his throat seemed to close on him. He swallowed, and tried again.

"Why?" He spoke with fear clear in his voice. The King raised a single, golden eyebrow.

"Why yield? Or why would I ask?" The King spoke with ease that belied his youthful appearance. But then, this was an Arc. They were bold when none dared be. The soldier nodded, he could find no more words. "To answer both, because you have lost. I am not in danger, and there is no need for you to die." The soldier's eyes widened further, and teared up. But not out of happiness. Out of fear.

"Please. I don't want to burn!" He begged. The King looked pensive at this.

"This would be the punishment of the Fall Queen I assume. In that case, I suggest you look to your erstwhile leader." The King sheathed his sword and pointed lazily at the Fall back lines. The soldier was confused, but turned around anyway.

There, at the back, were the personal regiments of the Queen herself. Garbed in bright red, each terrifyingly skilled, and none more so than her Grimm, her honour guard. They stayed with her at all times, fighting to the death.

And they fell like wheat before the farmer's scythe as a vast white cavalry bore down upon them from behind.

"The Queen assumed that Atlas would remain aloof from our battles. But I am very close with the Princess. We trained and learned together, and remain friends. It was a grievous error on the Queen's part. It took little effort for me to convince them that if we fell, they would soon as well. What's more, my personal guard are even closer to her than I. One in particular..." He trailed off, and glanced at the guard with the war scythe, who rolled her eyes, but failed to hide a smirk on her lips. The King smiled, and turned back to the cavalry.

The soldier's mother had spoken of angels before, clad in white, come to deliver the dead to the heavens. This must be what they look like, he thought, as he watched the tip of the charge break into the Grimm like they weren't even there. The Queen's army stood still.

And then they broke.

They ran, or fell to their knees where they stood, no longer fearing for the fire she wielded. The soldier did the same, in both disbelief and relief.

"I..." he began.

"Yes. You're free." The King finished.

Yes, thought the soldier.

I'm free.

* * *

So this story was based entirely on a very cool drawing I saw by Xeroartsu, which can be seen here: xeroartsu. tumblr tagged /king+jaune+au/

I was also given permission to use it as cover art. Thanks again!


End file.
